


stale alcohol

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk Simon Lewis, Drunkenness, Fluff and Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, guess who it's about, simon is having a crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: The bed dips as Jace lowers himself into the space beside Simon. “I don’t hate you.”“What do you feel, then? Lingering abhorrence? A smidge of loathing? Just a general feeling of disgust when you look at me?”“A sprinkling of detestation,” Jace mutters. “But that’s mostly aimed at your dramatic streak.”





	stale alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from scarysimon on tumblr, who wanted Simon drunkenly angsting over Jace at hunter's moon early in the morning, so I hope this is okay. Seriously, I have no idea what I've written. I've tweaked it slightly so that the ending is happy, because I don't write angst well. Thank you, I hope you enjoy it!

Simon lets his head rest gently on the bar. The surface is slightly sticky, and probably always will be, no matter how often Maia wipes it down. She’s there tonight, mixing something amber in a glass while chatting happily to some dude. Every now and again she glances over, a look of concern on her face, and Simon flashes her a wobbly thumbs-up. 

He shouldn’t technically be able to get drunk, but the blood in the bottles he’d been accidentally sent were from a drunk guy, so now Simon is drunk too. He should have been sent normal blood, but once Magnus explained the situation, Simon had jumped on the chance and secreted several bottles away. 

Now he’s at Hunter’s Moon, completely gone, at four o’clock in the morning. The place is pretty empty, barring a few people in one of the corner booths and two guys talking to Maia, so Simon is free to mope in peace. 

Maia throws a rag down next to Simon’s head and firmly prises his fingers away from the glass. It’s mostly empty, but Simon still whines when it disappears. Maia fixes him with a stern look and folds her arms. 

“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting all sad and pathetic again.”

“I know you mean that with love, so I’ll just cry internally instead of externally,” Simon says, voice muffled by the bar. 

Maia sighs and taps him on the head until he squints up at her. “What’s wrong, Simon?”

Simon gives a huge sigh and drops his forehead back against the bar. “Jace has gone out on a mission. Something for the Clave, to get rid of a bunch of demons, I don’t know.” 

“Jace is a good Shadowhunter,” Maia says patiently, clearly waiting for him to get whatever it is off his chest. Simon loves Maia, he really does, and he’s sad that they didn’t work out, because she’s a wonderful, wonderful person. 

There’s Jace, though. There’s always, always Jace. 

But one day there won’t be. 

Simon groans miserably, and the little bell above the door chimes as it’s thrown open. A gust of cold wind sweeps through the place, and Simon doesn’t hear the footsteps creeping up on him, but Maia must be able to see who it is, because her eyebrows go up, and she glances down at him. 

“Talk to him,” she murmurs, and then turns back to the newcomer. 

Jace settles on the barstool beside Simon, folding himself into the space gracefully. Simon finds himself weak with relief at the sight of him, and something eases in his chest, only to come back with full force; just because Jace made it this time, doesn’t mean he’s going to make it next time. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Jace asks, amused, with a hint of concern. Maia sighs exasperatedly, but her countenance is a little softer as she glances between the both of them. 

“He’s drunk,” Maia says. “And apparently, being drunk makes him a complete wet blanket. I thought he was going to burst into tears at least a few times this evening.”

Jace gives him an appraising look that sends shivers dancing down Simon’s spine. He must see exactly how pathetic Simon expects he looks, from the droop to his shoulders to the slightly glassy look in his eyes, because he snorts and shakes his head. If it were anyone else, Simon would call it fond. 

“I’ll take him off your hands,” Jace says, putting both hands under Simon’s armpits and heaving him up off the stool. “Come on, up you get.”

Simon falls forward and buries his face in the curve of Jace’s neck. If he were a little more with it, he’d relish the feeling of warm skin, and the noise that Jace barely stifles. He’d be a little more worried at the pulse he can feel under his mouth. For now, it’s enough just to feel it, to know that Jace is alive. 

“I thought you’d decided that you weren’t my type,” Jace says, after clearing his throat. A hand grazes Simon’s shoulder blade, just barely, and then pulls away. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Jace seems to pause with his whole body. Maia makes a soft sound and drifts away, like she senses this conversation isn’t for her. The hand comes back up and grips his jacket firmly, pulling Simon back until he’s standing on wobbly feet, staring woozily at Jace, who frowns at him. 

“One day, you’re not going to come back,” Simon says seriously, the kind of seriousness that can only come at four in the morning, when you’re drunk out of your mind. And Jace stops. Looks at him. Takes a deep breath, and shoves Simon gently in the direction of the door. Simon stumbles, foot catching on the edge of a barstool, and Jace catches him, slinging Simon’s arm over his shoulder and throwing a wave at Maia before shouldering the door open. 

Outside, the weather matches Simon’s mood. He never thought he’d be a miserable drunk, but maybe that’s just the blood talking. He feels like curling up in a corner somewhere and sleeping for a few days, but they’re in the middle of the street, and Jace is warm against him. Even in his drunken state, he can appreciate that. The heat soaks through their wet clothes, just like the rain, and warms Simon’s side. 

They stumble for a while until they reach the subway, and then it’s a short, silent ride to Simon’s block. Jace keeps Simon’s arm over his shoulder the entire time, and sits rigidly in the scratchy seat, eyes fixed forward. Simon droops against Jace, against the window, against the lamppost when they finally get outside, back into the pouring rain. 

Simon’s apartment is small and tidy, empty of pretty much everything barring a few plants and pieces of second-hand furniture. His bed is the only comfortable thing in the place, sheets readily-made and pillows arranged carefully. Jace steers him through the rooms and sits him on the edge of the bed, and then doubles back to lock the door. When he comes back, clean clothes in hand, stolen from the hamper, Simon is sprawled sideways on the bed. 

Jace throws his clothes at his feet and kicks at his ankle, hanging off the side of the bed. 

“Get up, you’re making everything wet.” 

Simon grins a little goofily, opens his mouth to make a dirty joke, and then clacks his teeth shut when Jace shoots a look at him. 

“Don’t. That one was beneath even you.”

It takes a while to flail his way into his clothes, and it doesn’t help that Jace just stands there, watching, as Simon tries to shove his head through the arm-hole in his baggy t-shirt. He almost succeeds, as well, which is when Jace steps in, sighing and wrestling Simon into his clothes properly. He produces a towel and roughly dries Simon’s hair, while Simon just sits there, dazed. The roughness fades, replaced with gentle touches, until Jace throws the towel aside. 

“I’m not sure whether vampires can get hangovers,” Jace says. “But it should be amusing to find out. Go to sleep, Simon. We can talk in the morning, if you still want to.”

“I always want to talk to you,” Simon slurs. “Unless you’re being an asshole. Then I’d rather talk to Clary.” 

Jace’s voice is soft and amused. “Go to sleep.”

Simon giggles when Jace pushes lightly on his chest. He flops back against the bed, and the covers are shoved into his chest. He curls around them, welcoming the warmth, and says something a little sleepily. He knows Jace pauses, runs a hand over his head, and then he drops off to sleep. 

*

Waking up is hell. Simon groans into his pillow, kicking off the covers and then lying deadly still, as if that will get his stomach to stop sloshing about like that. He’s not going to be sick. 

“Apparently vampires can get hangovers,” he mutters, and there’s an amused sound from the doorway. Simon cracks open one eyelid, groaning again as the light hits him, and spots Jace standing by the door, in all his usual glory. Why he has to look so good is beyond Simon, but he suspects it’s something to do with making everyone else feel awful and intimidated. 

Jace holds up a bottle of blood and Simon throws one hand out, whining pathetically. Jace leans back against the doorway, wiggling the bottle. 

“I’m not coming to you,” Jace says. “You’ll have to get up if you want this. Laziness isn’t attractive, Lewis.” 

“Are you telling me that the sight of my prone, exhausted form doesn’t get you going?” Simon demands. “Because if that’s the case, then I call bullshit. Honestly, what the hell. It doesn’t get much better than this, you know.” 

“Are you still drunk?” Jace asks warily. 

Simon begrudgingly sits up when it looks like Jace really isn’t going to come any closer, and swings his feet over the side of his bed. He pulls on a pair of fluffy socks and a jumper, moaning and whining and cursing as the room spins and his stomach heaves. He’s not going to be sick. He’s also probably not going to be doing much of anything today. 

“I have decided,” Simon says, with great dignity, “that today is a pyjama day.”

“Do pyjama days involve chats about why you shouldn’t worry too much when certain Shadowhunters goes off to fight demons?”

Simon freezes in the act of burrowing back under his covers. Jace is watching him carefully, an air of false calm draped over him. Simon is decidedly not calm. Simon happens to be panicking slightly, fists bunching in the covers as he looks for an escape route. Unfortunately, the only way out appears to be through the tiny window, since Jace is blocking the door, and Simon doesn’t think he can manage to squeeze his head through it. 

“Uh, no, no they do not,” Simon says, babbling slightly. “They involve snacks, or they used to, when I could actually eat them. And they involve pyjamas, obviously. And they involve video games and lying around in bed, nursing hangovers. There are absolutely no chats involved in the making of a pyjama day.”

Jace stalks closer with each word, until he’s leaning over Simon. He puts both hands on the bedspread either side of Simon’s hips and leans down until their faces are inches apart. 

“You know, I’m slightly insulted,” Jace murmurs lowly. “You’d think by now you would have realised I can handle myself.”

Simon can feel every breath across his cheeks. His mouth parts slightly, and he licks his dry lips. Jace’s eyes are so startling up close. Everything seems to slow down, and Simon leans forward unconsciously, swaying a little. 

“I was drunk,” he says. “Nothing you say counts when you’re drunk.”

“Your inhibitions are looser when you’re drunk,” Jace corrects him. “It just means you say what you’re really thinking, what you’re really feeling. And if I didn’t know better, I would have said what you were really feeling was concern, for me.”

Jace smirks, leaning back, and Simon glowers up at him. He doesn’t deny it, because he can’t, not now that it’s out there, and Jace’s smirk widens in delight. 

“Why Simon,” he coos, because he’s an asshole. “I didn’t know you cared.” 

“Well, I do,” Simon snaps suddenly. “So stop being such an ass and deal with it.”

Jace stares at him, stunned silent. The room feels a little too small and too big at the same time, the words echoing around the large space. 

Simon considers him thoughtfully. “If I’d known that would shut you up, I would have said it ages ago.”

Jace snorts, although he still looks a little shell-shocked. “What do you mean, you care?” 

“It’s not hard to comprehend.” 

“It is, actually,” Jace counters. Jace is always the sort of person who looks comfortable in his skin, like he knows what he is and who he is. Like he loves what he sees when he looks in the mirror. Right now, he looks vaguely discomfited, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands clenched loosely at his sides. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which is par for course when Simon is involved, and it makes Simon’s heart do something painful. 

“We hardly speak, and when we do, we’re usually taking the piss out of each other. The only thing we have in common is Clary, and that hasn’t exactly been a source of happiness for us.” Jace looks so confused, and it breaks Simon’s heart. He sighs, collapsing back against the covers, lying sideways on the bed with his bottom half hanging over the edge, feet planted on the floor. There’s masking tape on the ceiling, and he stares at the strip of grey like it might ground him, anchor him to the moment. 

“I don’t know why I care,” Simon says. It’s not true. Simon knows exactly why he cares. He cares because it’s Jace. He cares because there are all these people in the world that love Jace, and it would break them if he was hurt. He cares because Jace is always trying, always growing, because he’s changing and evolving, because he’s not a complete dick like he used to be. If he ever was. He cares because there’s this sweet sort of fragility under a mask of complete confidence, and it shines through when he talks to Max, when he hugs Isabelle, when he smiles at Alec. 

If Jace weren’t a good person, Simon wouldn’t care about him. It’s not love, not yet, but Simon knows himself, and he knows what this could become. He could fall easily, if he just let it happen. 

“I don’t know why I care, but I do. You don’t have to do anything about it. You can ignore it, if you like, and we can go on hating each other.”

The bed dips as Jace lowers himself into the space beside Simon. “I don’t hate you.”

“What do you feel, then? Lingering abhorrence? A smidge of loathing? Just a general feeling of disgust when you look at me?”

“A sprinkling of detestation,” Jace mutters. “But that’s mostly aimed at your dramatic streak.”

Simon sighs again, purposely theatrical, with a hand thrown across his eyes, and Jace coughs out a quiet laugh. That, that right there is why Simon cares, because this boy laughs so quietly when he means it, like he’s afraid someone will hear and take away the thing that’s making him happy. 

“You said, ‘one day you’re not going to come back,’ last night.” 

Simon takes a deep breath. He feels Jace’s fingers ghost over his own, and his hand twitches on the covers. His other hand still covers his eyes, and he can see chinks of light through the gaps in his fingers. His head still aches, but the room stopped spinning a few minutes ago. He feels sick for an entirely different reason, and he’s not sure he wants to spell it out. 

“You always have someone at your back,” Simon says, his voice a little hoarse. “Alec, or Izzy, or even Clary, these days. But every time you go out to fight, I can’t help thinking that it’s going to be the last time you do it. That the person at your back isn’t going to be quick enough. That Magnus isn’t going to get there in time to heal you. That there aren’t going to be enough miracles to bring you back.”

He drops his hand away and squeezes his eyes shut instead. “I know it’s cheesy and stupid, but I can’t help it. I really don’t want you to die.”

Jace hums thoughtfully. Then there’s a sensation of movement through the air above him, and Simon flinches instinctively when he feels pressure on his lower abdomen. He opens his eyes and peers up at Jace, who’s apparently straddling him now. That’s a thing, a thing that’s happening. 

His hands flutter upwards, landing tentatively on Jace’s thighs. Jace smirks down at him, and Simon swallows thickly. He’s a little too hungover for this, and the mood in the room is so heavy, like thick curtains draped over them, but he’s not going to stop this, whatever it is. 

“Shadowhunters die young,” Jace says, after a thoughtful pause. 

Simon pushes himself up on his elbows to stare at him incredulously. “Dude, that is the exact opposite of comforting.”

Jace pushes him back down, and Simon flops back, bouncing a little on the bed, still muttering under his breath. 

“Shut up,” Jace says succinctly. “Shadowhunters do die young. That’s what we get taught, what we’re told. That’s why we take all the risks in life, why we live to the fullest. We go after what we want.”

Jace’s eyes are intense as he plants both hands on either side of Simon’s head, leaning down again. This time, he doesn’t just breathe against him – Jace kisses him. Simon sucks in a breath and goes still, hands tensing on Jace’s thighs, and then Jace tilts their mouths together, gets a better angle, does something, and Simon feels himself go boneless, melting into it. 

They kiss for long, slow minutes, and the heavy tension gives way to something slower, more lethargic. 

Jace draws back, a lazy smile on his face. “You taste awful, by the way.”

Simon makes an offended noise, and then wrinkles his noise. He probably does taste awful, like stale alcohol and blood. Jace stays above him for a few seconds before sitting back, one hand tracing circles on Simon’s hip. 

“Okay, I have to ask. Did that mean anything, or was that just your way of getting me to stop talking about feelings?” 

Jace’s mouth twitches. “Look, I can’t promise anything. But I think I might be a little more careful out there if I knew I had something like this to come back to. And I can’t promise I will come back, because I’m not going to stop fighting. But neither are you, right?”

“Right,” Simon agrees, because yeah, he has friends out there, and whatever Jace is, and he wants them safe, wants to be the thing keeping them safe. 

“So maybe we’ll not come back together, then,” Jace offers, and Simon rolls his eyes. It’s not a solution, not even close, but it’s all they both have to offer right now. 

“And as for what this is, I don’t really know,” Jace says, shrugging one shoulder, affecting a careless look that Simon sees right through. “But maybe we can find out.”

He sounds so unsure, even with the blank confidence eon his face, that Simon has to smile. He lets it grow, lets it soften and reaches up to rub his knuckles along Jace’s cheek. He sees the way Jace’s pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, and he feels warm. 

“Yeah. Let’s find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, okay, this is not really how I wanted it to turn out, but I hope you like it. Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought, and come say hey @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr. Send me prompts! I'd love to hear from you. Thank you so much!


End file.
